Almost, Nearly (But Never Quite)
by and so they said always
Summary: The first time (and second first time) Castle and Beckett met was at a book signing. Except it wasn't. Because sometimes, very, very rarely, there are people so inexplicably connected that they inevitably collide. Over and over. A collection of all the times fate and the streets of New York couldn't keep these two apart, a series of accidental firsts that neither remembers.
1. Chapter 1 - Beginning With Books

**Hi guys,**

**So here is the first instalment of my new caskett chapter fic. I hope you enjoy it. **

**Each chapter, as stated in the summary, details a time in their pasts when Castle and Beckett accidentally met but neither realised nor remembered. **

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**Almost, Nearly (But Never Quite) ****– ****chapter 1  
****a caskett fanfiction**

He's bored.

This is boring.

Ugh.

Castle had thought that a job at a second-hand bookstore would be a simply spiffing occupation for a just-graduated high school student trying to get the jump on college loans. Saving early before, you know, he actually _went _to college and realised what a waste of time it was.

He's sure the whole 'tertiary education' thing going to be a waste of time.

Still, maybe he can just fail to attend his classes and write all day long.

He taps the counter idly with his pen. He stares blankly at the ancient cash register, the machine equivalent of someone who would wheeze, "When I was young…"

Yeah.

Still bored.

Castle drags a hand through his hair. When he'd signed up for this job, he'd thought he'd be helping like-minded people find interesting stories, and in spare moments, be engulfed in a tome he'd find on a shelf somewhere. It would be a dream come true.

No such luck.

After a week and a half at _J&J's Book Nook, _Castle has read every tale of interest to him. Most of the ones stocked here are cook books or in foreign languages. Or just genuinely dull.

The people here are much like the books in that respect.

These factors alone are enough to make him want to rip his ruggedly dashing hair from his scalp, but the worst part is, this store is killing his writing vibe. Most of the time, customers don't need his help, so he's left sitting at the wooden desk that serves as a checkout. Which should, in theory, be some perfect writing time. Get his ideas on paper, right?

He has no ideas.

His brain is filled to the brim with the musty odour of the bookstore; he is drowning in the weight of inactivity. He's built to write action, not explorative tales that examine the fleeting aspects of existence in a solitary setting with little to no identifiable action.

That's when the first customer in four hours walks into the store.

A kid, maybe eight years old.

His first thought is, _she looks like someone who isn't afraid of the dark. _

He thinks perhaps she'll meander off into the aisles, searching for those children's books about ponies and babysitter's clubs or whatever it is that eight-year-old girls read about.

In a rather unexpected move, however, she walks straight up to him, a very determined expression cut across her face.

"Hello," she says brusquely, as if she's on a schedule and he's already wasting her time. How could a kid be late for anything? Don't they just watch cartoons all day?

"Hi," Castle replies, a little tentatively.

"I'm looking for a book," she tells him abruptly, obligatory formalities (clearly something of a nuisance) now over.

"Well, this is the right place for a book," he responds, giving her a small smile.

She shoots him a glare. "I know _that. _I did read the sign. It's not an _accident _I walked into a bookstore looking for a book," she says, somewhat venomously.

He straightens in his chair to allow himself to look down at her. Normally, the superior feeling that comes with having been alive longer is enough to make him feel righteously condescending towards children. Now he needs height as well. "You're very spiky," he mutters grumpily, liking the adjective.

"If I were spiky, I'd be in hospital. Humans can't be spiky," she points out, juvenile logic shining through.

He frowns. "I'm a writer. I have creative licence. Your _essence _is spiky, kid."

"Don't call me kid," she demands of him sharply, her arms jumping to her hips.

"Well, you're a kid, and I don't know your name, so…" Castle is feeling wonderfully immature, and so bored that he'll happily waylay this snarky child on her way to collect a book. _He's_ got nothing better to do, even if _she_ has.

"My name's Kate," she tells him, narrowing her eyes.

"Stranger danger," he responds smugly, grinning at her. "You're not supposed to tell grown-ups you don't know what your name is."

She laughs at him. "Firstly, you're not a grown-up. You're just a slightly older kid, and frankly, I don't think you _seem _much older. And second, your name tag says you're called _Richard, _so you're not technically a _total _stranger. You going to help me find this book or not, by the way?"

"I'll help," he mutters, half glaring at her, half grinning. She's funny, in an odd, eight-year-old kind of way.

"Good," she responds, eyeing him suspiciously as he comes to her side of the desk, as if expecting him to decide against helping her and return to lounging around. She doesn't need to know that he's actually got nothing better to do than help this little girl with the 'spiky essence'.

"What are you looking for?" he asks finally, leaning back against the edge of the counter.

"A crime novel. Mystery. Detective."

He brightens at the mention of his favourite genre. Then he narrows his eyes. "Aren't you a bit young to be reading scary books like that?"

He can actually _feel _the burn of her tiny glare on his skin. "I can read _whatever I want, _thank you very much. But it's for my mum, actually. It's her birthday soon, and she loves those kinds of books." The girl, Kate, pauses. "I'll probably read it once she's finished. Just so long as she doesn't catch me, it doesn't matter if book is too scary for me. Adults think almost everything is too scary. But they never are, really."

"Sometimes things _are _too scary," he informs her, thinking with a twist of his stomach of some of the horrifically gory scenes he himself has written, and how they might affect someone her age.

"Besides," she adds, "it's not like its real, is it? I mean, I know that people _do _get murdered and hurt and chased and stuff like that, but it's all kind of far away, you know? I mean _yes, _it could happen, but it's not like I'm going to be shot, or be a witness to a stabbing or anything. That makes them okay to read, see?"

"I guess," he shrugs doubtfully.

* * *

He finds her the book she wants, and she pays with what looks so suspiciously like pocket money that he can't help giving her a discount (without telling her, of course – he doubts she'd react kindly).

Kate offers him a _thanks _and a small smile.

Castle is struck by the sudden idea that someone like her, someone unusually snarky and cynical for their age, would make an excellent character. Maybe he can put her in his book?

Then again, maybe not. She's not really the kind of character he needs right now.

But maybe another time.

_(Yes. Another time indeed.)_

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**There you go. If there's interest, I'll release some more chapters.**

**In the mean time, if you're interested, head to my bio and check out my other caskett stories (helpful hint: they're ****_all _****caskett stories).**

**I hope you enjoyed it.**

**x. M**


	2. Chapter 2 - A Name Like Nikki

**Hey guys,**

**Sorry for the ridiculously long delay between chapters. I've been having some pretty bad health issues, and so haven't been able to update.  
Thanks for sticking around.**

**This chapter is a bit substandard, because I'm trying to get back into the rhythm of Castle, and of this story.**

**Bare with me, please.**

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**Almost, Nearly (But Never Quite) ****– ****chapter 2  
****a caskett fanfiction**

Castle stares up at the school suspiciously.

He'd thought he was done with these stupid places all together. They're all the same.

He could probably think of an excellent series of adjectives (intermingled with various offensive verbs) to sum up his opinion of schools, but he decides such a time-honoured descriptor as 'stupid' will serve adequately.

Well, he thinks, at least this time _he _won't be the one behind the desk, scribbling story ideas in the back of the notepad. This time, he is a tutor.

He is the boss man. The big cheese.

Go him.

He debates with himself whether it would be more fun to imperiously glare at every kid who comes to him for help, and lecture them with big words in an English accent, or to be a cool, anything-goes type.

Either way, he's getting paid only a little above the minimum wage.

Ah, _c'est la vie _of a college student.

He can only cross his fingers and hope that one of the publishers he sent his manuscript to will pick him up, or he'll be stuck tutoring fourth graders advanced English work one-on-one forever.

How about _no, _he thinks venomously to himself.

* * *

The first two students he has to talk to are dead boring. Wow.

They just ask him to proofread their assignment, which is to write a scene from a story they've planned out.

He knows it's mean, but he nearly yawned once or twice. The fictional ponderings of nine-year-olds are not exactly scintillating.

The next kid of the class he's currently supposed to be "assisting to extend their capabilities in the subject of your supposed expertise, Mr Castle" is a slight little girl, with a shock of dark brown hair and a serious expression.

She seems vaguely familiar, somehow. "Do I know you?" he asks her, tilting his head a tad as he tries to determine the origin of the flicker of the recognition, but he cannot place it.

"Well, I don't know you, so it's probably unlikely. You're obviously too young to know my parents, and you're too old to know me, so…" the girl says.

"Hey! I'm not old," he counters indignantly.

"You are a _bit _old. To be at school and not be a teacher, I mean."

"I _am _a teacher," he informs her, a touch loftily.

"You're not a real teacher," she responds. "You don't have a badge. All the teachers have badges."

"I'm an honorary teacher. Now, hush, and show me whatever you need help with," he instructs.

"Fine," she agrees, and pulls a paper out of her bag, covered in the neat etchings of a pencil held with a carefully controlled hand.

"Nice fine motor skills," he says jokingly, "mine were nowhere near as good as yours at your age."

She looks confused, her brow furrowing. She's a cute little kid. He was probably a right bastard when he was her size. "I don't know how to drive cars," she notes, puzzled.

"That's not what… Never mind. So, what's your problem?" he presses. He can hear the vague _cush-hush _of her patent leather shoes scuffing along the rough carpet as she swings her feet back and forth in a childish rhythm under the desk.

"I can't think of a name for my character. Nothing seems to fit her. It's annoying me. I want to give her the right name, because characters should have the right name, you know?" she gazes back at him, as if she is nervous he won't understand what she means.

But he does. "Oh, I get you. I'm writing a book right now, and I spent ages trying to come up with a name for my lead. It's hard, but you're right, it's very important."

"You write books?"

"Yes."

"That's very cool," she grins slightly, but she reaches back across the table to take her paper back.

"Hey," he mutters indignantly, snatching it closer to him. "I haven't read it yet."

She shakes her head rapidly. "No. You're a _real _writer. I don't want you to read it. It's not very good. It's not like a real book."

He smiles softly at her. "Hey. It's okay. I'm sure I'll love it. Not everything has to be perfect when you write. I did about sixteen drafts of my  
book before I sent it to the publisher, and I'm still not that happy with it. Now, let me read."

Castle's a very, very quick reader, so it doesn't take him long. He'd expected to have to feign enthusiasm about her work, but it's actually really rather good. The vocabulary range used is much broader than what he would expect for someone her age. "You read a lot, don't you?" he deduces.

She nods. "Yes."

"I can tell, because you use a lot of very excellent words. And the story is interesting. I'm very impressed. Your character is what we in the biz call 'kick-ass'," he adds.

She smiles. "I like it better when the girls are cooler than the boys in stories. It's annoying when it's always the girl being saved."

He nods in agreement. "It's true, girls are better than boys at most things. Now, as for a name for her… Why do you have 'N' written instead of pronouns here?"

"Oh," she says. "It stands for 'name'."

"Well, I like the letter 'N'. I think you should keep it. I'm going to list off some options, and you stop me when I say one you like: Natalie, Natasha, Nancy, Naarah, Nikki, Naomi -"

"Stop!"

"Naomi?"

"No," the girl clarifies hurriedly. "The other one. Before it."

"Nikki?"

"Yes. I like that one."

"Me too," Castle seconds, "I think it suits her nicely. Very nifty name. Good for a detective."

She nods happily. "Thank you, Mr Castle."

He grins. "My pleasure…?"

"Kate," she supplies.

"Well done, Kate. I think you'll do well with that story. It really is very good. I wish I could write as well as you can."

She frowns. "If you're worse than me, I don't think you could be a very good writer."

"I was being nice."

"It didn't work."

"Okay," he agrees.

The girl nods, and hops up from her chair (she's really not the much taller standing up). "See you later," she throws over her shoulder as she heads from his set-up in the hallway back to the main classroom with the other kids.

He waves slightly, and waits for the next child to show up.

_(She does see him later. Another time, another place, another moment with a not-quite stranger. It's not until much, much later, though, that they actually get to know each other.)_

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**There. Hope it wasn't a total let down.**

**See you later,**

**x. M**


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